Poetry

Your underpants? 
Can you put them behind 
beneath the weight of memories? 
 
Flamingos. 
They are in flight 
after the birth pangs. 
 
Trapped- 
the light flutters 
at watermark for a name. 
 
Yet to be born, 
a stone-blind moon 
wants the partisan blue. 
 
One will not forget a headless 
body of an ariel. 
The tempest was at the door.